Vieled Remonstrance
by SpazticatedOwlDroppings
Summary: The threat of the Empire is looming upon the Varden, and now Eragon must make his final decision: to do what is right, or to save one's life. But what happens when love comes into the equation? And from someone he least expects it from? [SLASH]


_**Blanket Warnings:**_This fanfiction will eventually include _slash_. If you do not like this and/or it offends you, then kindly piss off – I'm sure you have better things to do with your time, because I know I do. Flames for this will not be tolerated as we've kindly stated both now, and in the summary for the story, that slash will be involved. Either you're too stupid to see that, or you way too pathetic to exist and have, unfortunately, endless amounts of time on your hands because you have no friends. I know I sound mean, but I've seen other great stories where authors get flamed for slash, though they've stated that there will be male-on-male love. Let it be known that we won't cry to our mothers, and we won't take it – we'll take you out.

_**Blanket Disclaimers:**_ We, Ashyx and CaramelBoost, do not own anything pertaining to Eragon, Christopher Paolini, or Eldest, nor are we making any profit off of the creation of this story. We do however, own a cookie.

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**Prologue**

There were two of them in that room, two men. The older one was seated upon a throne of gigantic proportions, his face illuminated by the torchlight to be old - but his age was one that one could not guess, while the younger one knelt at his knees, forehead resting on the platform in a sign of tribute. Not a sound was made by either of the men; the only noise was from the crackling of the flame and harsh, jagged breathing of the younger one. Then the elder spoke, and his voice was deep, sending tremors throughout all who heard it, yet not unpleasant to the ear. "How close are you, my servant?"

"Close." The young man croaked, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat. "I am close, my Lord."

The older one, the Lord, nodded and leaned back, steepling his fingers. It was obvious that he was in command of the situation, and that he was used to it being that way. "Excellent. And do they suspect you?"

The younger man shook his head fervently, "No, my Lord, I don't believe they do."

The Lord nodded solemnly, his onyx eyes staring at the wall behind his servant. "Good. That is indeed good news. If all goes well, we'll have the Rider by the end of the season. What say you?" He glanced down at the young man, who remained unmoving.

"I say that I shall do whatever my Lord bids me to." He responded, his voice low, containing no inflection or emotion at all. And his elder seemed pleased by the answer, as he grinned maliciously and unsteepled his fingers, drumming them in an almost bored fashion against the chair.

"Good, my servant. I am pleased to have taught you well." The man rose from his chair and began to pace along the platform, "The Varden will fall by the end of the year; it amuses me that they've managed to evade their demise for so long, but they will fall none the less. During all this, your job is to get closer to the Rider, and when the Varden falls, I want you to give him an offer he can't refuse. Understood?"

The younger man, for he could barely be called a man, cleared his throat and answered, "Yes, my Lord, understood perfectly."

A wide smirk, for the older man never actually grinned, stretched across his face. His disciple stood, still bowing, and exited the room within the shadows, an odd tapping noise following him out. Just before he reached the large door, the Lord decided to add one more thing:

"Halt," he commanded and the young man instantly froze, turning slightly in order to face his leader.

The young man's right eye swiveled to stare in the general direction of the speaker. An orb of a light shade could barely be seen through the twilight, but it seemed distorted somehow. Blinking, as if asking 'what is it', the young man waited for his Lord to continue.

"Just don't get _too_ carried away," His smirk turned distorted, and disturbingly possessive, as the seated man thought over any, and all, ways the boy's mission could go wrong.

"Of course, my Lord," replied the young man and he left with only the odd tapping noise making a sound.

The young man left the room feeling accomplished; his master finally decreed he was ready - and worthy - to face the Varden: The Varden, the group that had tormented his master for so long. The Varden, the group that forced endless to die in a futile war that was impossible to win; no one could beat his master, it was a lesson he had been forced to learn long ago. Now, as he made his way back to his rooms, he contemplated the best method for which to complete his task. The task that would bring about the downfall of the rebellion, and the uprising of his master's rule - one with no one to stop him.

He unearthed a sturdy leather bag from his closet and set about packing it as lightly as he could while still giving it efficiency. There was a knock on his door which he quickly answered. Apparently it was a servant.

"Sir, I was sent to help you pack-" the man, who was a good five inches taller than he himself, started.

Without even a word of response, the room's occupant slammed the door shut. As if he would need help. He wasn't blind like most people were; oh no - he could _see_ what they could not. Picking up his weapon of choice, which was nearly as tall as himself, he then proceeded in smacking it against an assortment of objects. Tendrils of colored sound drifted to-and-fro before the young man's vision and took the general shape of the assaulted item. Letting a miniscule smirk grace his lips, the young spy stuffed several small pouches of money into his pockets and bag. He knew from experience - otherwise known as a harsh beating from the King - that it was extremely dangerous to carry all of your money in a single purse.

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Nearly an hour later, the young man donned a traveler's cloak over his back and slung his bag over a shoulder. With his weapon held out before him, the spy exited through huge, spiked, cast-iron gates and out beyond Galbatorix's vicinity. Placing a wide, raggedy-rimmed hat atop his dark hair (as to help protect his face from the buffeting winds that surrounded the castle), he accepted the reins of the horse he was offered. His steed, which was specially-trained, stood perfectly still as the short young man climbed his way up into the saddle. With the twinge of it's rider's boots, the horse set off in a quick canter.

An amused grin spread to both the spy's ears.

The Varden wouldn't know what hit them.

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**Hello, hello, hello! This is short because it's only the prologue. Please note that chapters will get progressively longer. Reviews are really appreciated, but as we've stated in our **_**Blanket Warning**_** flames for slash are ****not**** tolerated. If you want to flame it for other reasons, such as our writing sucks, feel free to, because that is up for questioning.**

_Signed_

_SOD_

**x-Caramel-x**

_Ashyx_


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